My Lovely Canvas
by OhSuchAPerfectDay
Summary: We know what was going on through Susie's mind in that dreaded moment, but we don't know much about Mr Harvey's perspective; a short story describing Mr Harvey's thoughts and feelings during the rape and murder of Susie Salmon. Let's just say it's, well, not for the faint-hearted. (Not sure whether it's T rated or M rated, I'll say it's T and hopefully won't upset anyone too much!)


**Your Lovely Canvas**

"You're the older Salmon girl, right?" She's beautiful. The epitome of brilliance, though she doesn't flaunt it. Susie Salmon is pure, unmarred by the putrid disease that is reality. She's a flower in a field of weeds; she's a crystal champagne flute in a cabinet of coffee-stained mugs; she's a blank canvas, bursting with potential and begging to be marked, claimed, painted. Susie Salmon is as gentle and delicate as the snowflakes captured in her long wispy eyelashes, the snowflakes melting on her warm pink cheeks. The snowflakes melt like your heart whenever you manage even a mere glimpse of her and her brilliance. You realise that you are in love. You love Susie Salmon and all of her quirks. You love her, you must keep her talking.

"Yes." You love her alabaster skin, her skin which is seemingly always bathed in moonlight, shimmering and flawless like porcelain. You love Susie Salmon and her supernova of honey coloured locks of hair, cascading down her shoulders like a twisting, turning waterfall of apple cider. You loved your apple cider, back in the day; just like you love Susie Salmon and her subtle curves. The subtle curves of ample flesh which she has carefully concealed with her flared yellow trousers and her loose knitted jumper. You long, no, crave to touch her. Nothing vulgar, nothing violent, just a mere loving caress. Loving. You love her. You don't want to startle her. You must keep her talking.

"How are your folks?" Casual, just a casual conversation. You don't want to startle her.

"Fine." Her voice, oh her voice! Even in such callous monotone, it ignites something within you. Susie's mellow voice is a delicious symphony of violins and flutes, high in pitch and utterly beautiful. Even in such callous monotone, Susie's mellow voice ignites a rumbling flame deep within you, it pools in your stomach, gathering and threatening to flood and overflow. That would be catastrophic, but you're addicted to her. You must keep her talking.

"I've built something back here," go on, "would you like to see?" You long for her to be nearer to you, within touching, feeling distance. But you must take it slowly, there's no need to startle her. If you startle her, she might run away. If she runs away, you might have to use force to keep her with you. You can't let that happen, you won't let that happen. Not again.

"I'm sort of cold, Mr Harvey," you can't blame her; the snow is falling heavier now. "And my Mom likes me home before dark." A good girl. Susie Salmon is a very good girl. She doesn't talk to strangers, just like her mother told her. She does as her mother says-always. But you're not strangers, you know each other, you're neighbours. So you must keep her talking. It's a friendly chat, nothing unusual. You don't want to startle her; you just want to keep her talking. You must keep her talking.

"It's after dark, Susie." You pillock. You blithering idiot. You absolute fucking imbecile! Susie's eyebrows knit together, her forehead wrinkles. You know her name, but she doesn't know that. You've given yourself away, she's startled. She's going to run; she's going to attempt to escape. You must calm her down, ensure her that you simply heard her name in passing. If not, you may have to use force. You can't do that, not again. Not again.

"I've made a little hiding place." You watch her as she scans the area with her beautiful baby blue eyes, puzzlement evident on her serene features. You adore her eyes; you adore them and the way they shimmer like deep pools in the moonlight.

"I don't see anything." This annoys you, it's so obvious. It's so God damned obvious. Poor naïve little Susie, so oblivious.

"You should be more observant, Susie." You kick down hard on the ground beneath you, a sharp knock sounding from underneath your snowy boot. "Try again." Realisation creeps onto her face and you love it. You love Susie and her inability to mask her emotions, the way her features do all of the talking for her, no matter how silent she may seem.

"What's that?"

"It's wood. It keeps the entrance from collapsing. Other than that it's all made out of earth." Her curiosity peaks. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat. But Susie isn't a cat, and you're not going to kill her. You love her. It's just like Romeo and Juliet, forbidden love.

"What is it?"  
"Come and see." She climbs in and you admire her agility, the way her muscles ripple beneath her taught skin as her svelte frame twists and lunges down the ladder. She reminds you of the kitten your family used to own when you were a young child. You loved that kitten, but you also hated that kitten; she was beautiful but disobedient. You begin to reminisce about your childhood.

_You're sat in your father's armchair before a fireplace. Lucy, the kitten is perched elegantly on the table opposite you; you watch her as she scans the area with her beautiful baby blue eyes, puzzlement evident on her serene features. You adore her eyes; you adore them and the way they shimmer like deep pools in the moonlight. You step forward and scoop her up into your arms, and she leans into your touch. You ensconce yourself into the armchair, your toes curling into the plush royal green carpet. You whisper into her billowing copper fur to stay with you, to be your friend; and she does. She curls onto your lap and snuggles against you, robbing you of your warmth even though there is a perfectly good fire just by you. You run your hands down her svelte frame, massaging her tight muscles barely contained by her taught, fur coated skin. You smell her fur, honey and dirt. An odd combination, but a nice one._

_You listen to her purring, a deep rolling sound which resonates throughout the room in a delicious symphony of cellos and bass. You smooth down her rugged fur, scratch her behind her tufted ears and smirk as her eyes flutter in ecstasy. But then she twitches, she jolts, she bolts. You bolt, you grab, you grasp, you snap. You hear a sickening crunch, a squeak, an ear-splitting shriek. Then you feel it, a flood of warmth, running in rivulets down your wrist. Shortly, the smell hits you. The metallic, coppery scent of blood floods your nostrils and you panic. You hear an ear-splitting shriek, one that doesn't stop, like a boiling kettle. It doesn't diminish. Then you feel your throat grow hoarse and you realise that the vile sound is coming from you, but you can't stop. You scream like your life depends on it, sat in your puddle of blood. Then the room is filled with a blinding light and the hands grab you, the shouting begins, you lose your vision, it fades to grey and your ears fill with white noise._

Chaos. Beautiful chaos: that's the only way to describe it. Susie's utterly ravaged carcass lies before you like broken porcelain. Her slender, elegant neck is blotting paper, covered in inky dark bruises, a ring of impurity surrounding her tear-stained, frozen face, perpendicular to her neck. Twisted, snapped, out of place. Her shirt is in pieces around you, revealing her plain white cotton underwear, pulled up over her chest, revealing all; also blotchy with yellow and purple hues. Her stomach, once a barren wasteland of marble is now chiselled and sculpted, you can see a bump where her spine is pressing up into it; a bump surrounded by indigo. And below that...you can't see. Your own lower half has completely smothered it. You don't want to look, you've done it again and it pains you to see it. There is a tight feeling in your chest, like a chain binding your heart, restraining it from any form of movement. But this is art, and you are an artist. You feel compelled to look, . You peel yourself away from her battered and bruised form, admiring the sticky mess as you do so. You wipe yourself clean on the remains of her lovely yellow flared trousers, pull up your own and fasten them. You admire the sticky mess before you. She's abstract; no longer is she an ungainly lump of untouched clay, she is marred, tainted. She has been moulded into the finest piece imaginable, manipulated and twisted; pounded and stretched to her limits. Susie Salmon is no longer pure, and you love it. You love Susie Salmon and all of her quirks. You adore Susie Salmon, your princess, your kitten, your fine sculpture. You adore Susie Salmon, your lovely canvas.


End file.
